


I'd Do It All Over Again

by pt_tucker



Series: Calculated Risk [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Sherlock, Date Rape (Without the Date), Drugged Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Obsessive Sherlock, Sherlock Being Creepy, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4125136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/pseuds/pt_tucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second time was more opportunistic than premeditated. Well, unless you consider deliberately waiting over three hours for his brother to fall asleep so that he slip into his room and touch him inappropriately premeditated. </p>
<p>The fact that Sherlock carried the knock-out drug around with him daily only indicated its usefulness when dealing with dangerous criminals. That he hoped to one day catch Mycroft with it again had little to do with its constant presence in his coat pocket. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd Do It All Over Again

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the looooooong awaited sequel! So sorry! I had a terrible time writing for a while. 
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful Anarfea! Thank you again so much! ❤

Sherlock stared out through the bars at the man across from him. His gaze never lingered far from the other’s face so that the guard would be forced to look him in the eyes should he ever gather up enough courage to glance his way. As it was, the man was doing a marvelous job of pretending not to notice his detainee’s odd behavior as he turned a page every so often in his magazine.

Of course, his shoulders were tense, his lips were thinned, he moved with far more care than was natural, his reading speed had decreased an average of 1.2 times for every fifteen minutes of Sherlock’s attention, he was unable to control himself from fidgeting every few minutes, and he was not-so-discreetly watching him out of the corner of his eyes. Still, Sherlock was certain he could have fooled someone with fewer observational skills. It was commendable, really.

Sherlock gave it another forty minutes, give or take, before he cracked and either stormed out without a word or became violent. His shoes suggested the latter, but it was difficult to tell with certainty without additional data.

Sherlock’s lips curled upwards into a deliberate smile, one full of malice and cruel amusement. The guard across from him stiffened and clenched his hands around the magazine until its edges were a crumpled mess.

The man was clearly the result of prolonged bullying of the worst kind, which had left behind a deep-rooted fear that everyone was silently mocking him. Therapy had provided him with the means of living a relatively normal life, interrupted only by the most extreme triggers. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock had had ample practice in pushing people’s buttons.

Sherlock's plan was derailed by friendly fire when John moved to block his view.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Rewinding the last several minutes in his mind, Sherlock replayed the conversation for anything John might have said that was useful to his endeavor.

Silence.

"No. I had my filter on.” Sherlock peaked around John, already bored with the conversation. “You must not have said anything important. Would you mind terribly moving just a fraction to your left?”

“What?” John asked. His brows furled in confusion, as they so often did. He glanced behind him to look at their jailer. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to be stupid. It had to be awful having to wait for other people to explain everything to you.

“Staring. Your left, John.”

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes when he didn’t comply quickly enough. Clearly he needed to elaborate again in order for the information to sink into his lesser mind. How dull. “You’re in the way.”

“Of _what?”_

John’s voice was rising. Never a good sign.

Sighing, Sherlock leaned forward to whisper, "That man there has issues that I aim to use for our benefit. Namely escaping."

“By staring at him?”

“Yes. Want to join in?”

An impish smile made its way onto the Sherlock’s face, quickly mirrored by John’s grin. Pleasure warmed Sherlock’s insides in a way that had become more and more familiar the longer his blogger had stayed with him. It was different than the feeling Mycroft invoked, but no less potent.

_“What are you two whispering about!”_ the guard snapped at them.

_“Nothing to concern **you** ,”_ Sherlock sneered, his lips curling up in disgust.

Unable to speak Spanish, John opted to follow his lead and frowned at the guard in such a way as to tell the receiving party that he’d been judged and found wanting. Sherlock wasn’t surprised that when the man jumped to his feet and stormed over to glare at them, he focused on Sherlock and all but completely ignored John. It was no fun having John Watson tell you how much of a disappointment you were, let alone without even uttering a single word. Sherlock personally avoided John when he managed to invoke such a reaction. Eventually, John would get over it, or, Sherlock would, miraculously, find just the right thing to say or do which made everything better. Sherlock had started keeping a spreadsheet for future reference.

_“Watch your mouth, pretty boy, or I’ll find a better use for it.”_

The man rubbed himself suggestively.

Sherlock snorted at the empty threat. The guard clearly found all forms of homosexuality revolting due to his own deeply-closeted desires, the evidence plain as day to anyone that looked at his hair and gait and the way he’d chosen his magazine earlier. His partner, on the other hand, could be dangerous if he got wind of the threat. The other guard clearly had no scruples, seeing how he was at that very moment having sex with his mistress in the next cell over while simultaneously planning how to get away with murdering her sister. It’d be best to steer the conversation away from the topic of raping prisoners.

_“Why don’t you, then?”_ Sherlock allowed his eyes to roam the other man slowly, paying careful attention towards the areas he’d examine most thoroughly if it’d been Mycroft in the man’s place.

The guard flushed and stuttered for a moment before turning around and marching out the door.

The latch had barely clicked closed before Sherlock was on his feet and standing at the locked door of their cage. He estimated twelve minutes before the other man had cooled down enough to return to his guard duties. Plenty of time.

“What the bloody hell was that?”

“Hmm?” He glanced back at John. “Oh, nothing,” Sherlock said, waving his hand as he turned his attention once more to the lock. He pulled a small tool out of his left sock, hidden there during their capture when he’d “stumbled.”

“No, deciding which tea to brew in the morning is ‘nothing.’ A man making a sexually suggestive gesture towards you and then you eyeing him like he’s just declared he’s Jack the Ripper is definitely something.”

John brushed his side as came to rest beside him, and Sherlock knew without checking that John’s eyes were glued to the door on the other side of the room. If the guard came back now – if Sherlock was _wrong_ \- their stay at Ms. Henarez’s illegal gambling den- _cum_ -slave emporium would become decidedly less pleasant.

As it was, the only reason they’d not been shot on sight was the fact that Ms. Henarez was an exceptionally clever woman who had seen the potential in having a renowned detective around. His ability to read someone’s life at a glance had been of specific interest to someone who spent a great deal of her time placing bets. Of course, there was also the fact she’d promised to give him to her brother as a sexual plaything when she had no more use for him. Best not tell John that part.

“It’s impossible for someone to be Jack the Ripper, John,” Sherlock responded, sliding his hands through the bars and placing the lockpick into the keyhole.

“Copycat, then.”

“Dull.”

“Seriously, Sherlock,” John said, keeping his tone and voice at a conversational level should anyone wandering by decide to have a listen in. “Did you just make some sort of pass at that man?”

“I may have led him to believe I was interested,” Sherlock said. He moved the lockpick up and to the right. Eleven minutes left.

“And were you? Interested, I mean.”

Sherlock paused. He gave the other man a sour look.

“You honestly believe I’d arrange a blowjob for a man that thinks bathing is optional and hasn’t willingly visited a doctor since he moved out of his parents’ home? Is that what you think I go for?”

“I never know what to think when it comes to you.”

Sherlock went back to his lock-picking with a huff.

“So, you don’t go for men smelly men with STDs. Good to know.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched.

He smothered a cry of exultation when the lock gave not thirty seconds later. _Finally!_ That had taken far longer than he’d have liked. He’d have to practice backwards lock-picking on old-fashioned dungeon doors when he got home.

As one, they crossed the room and pressed their ears up against the door. Sherlock couldn’t be certain if the responding silence was due to a lack of noise outside the room or the inevitable muffling caused by the thick wooden door and stone walls. They’d just have to take the chance.

He looked at John. They nodded together.

Then they were running.

Left. Right. Straight for twenty-seven paces. Pause for fourteen seconds to allow the cameras in the side corridors to shift. Continue straight. Left. Duck into the passageway underneath the stairs. Down the hidden hallway. Up the stairs on the right. Cross the room and through door. Then-

Sherlock skidded to a stop. He just barely kept his feet as John slammed into his back.

“Mr. Holmes, I was just coming to get you, but it seems you have come to me. How fortunate."

"Oh, you know. Wanted to make a good impression," Sherlock answered as he took in the men quickly surrounding them. John pressed against him, leaving them back-to-back.

"Ugly Hat - bad left knee. Mustache - extremely near-sighted. Red shirt was a former prize fighter," Sherlock shot out to John from of the corner of his mouth.

John’s left leg brushed against his right as he shifted his stance behind Sherlock.

"You? A good impression? Somehow I find that hard to believe."

"Not my best lie, I know.”

Ms. Henarez gave him a sharp smile.

"You amuse me, Mr. Holmes. It's too bad I can't keep you."

"Not planning on visiting once you give me to your brother? And here I thought we'd hit it off so well."

"Unfortunately, I've had to alter my plans." Turning to her men, she ordered in Spanish, _"Bring him."_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He'd missed something. Before he could figure out what, a man appeared just behind the group. He walked slowly, calmly twirling the item in his hand as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Clearly being escorted, but not under escort.

“Hello Mycroft. Come to purchase yourself a slave boy?”

Sherlock just barely reined himself in from adding on a bit about Mycroft certainly needing the exercise. He didn’t insult Mycroft in front of others while he was conducting important business. Not in _that_ way, anyhow. It was an age-old agreement.

“I have, actually. In a manner of speaking.” He gave Sherlock a pointed look.

“You always did enjoy buying the solution to your problems,” Sherlock said, keeping his eyes fixed just to Mycroft’s left.

His brother was radiating displeasure at the moment. And power. Cold power and carefully controlled anger. It wouldn’t do to get an erection now.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, “And I’ve become rather good at it over the years, if I do say so myself. Now then,” he turned towards Ms. Henarez, “I assume our business is concluded?”

“Unfortunately,” she said, sending a pouty look Sherlock’s way. He sent her one right back in mockery.

Mycroft nodded.

“Come,” he said to them, tilting his head towards the exit.

As much as Sherlock wanted to refuse just to be petulant, he understood this was perhaps not the best time to try his luck. There was always the possibility Mycroft might actually leave him there. And by him, he meant John. His brother would slit his own wrists before leaving Sherlock in a den of sex slaves.

“Wait, are we just going to-”

“Not now, John,” Sherlock said.

John followed, obviously fuming. John always followed. Sherlock’s heart fluttered at the thought.

Once they’d finally gotten above ground to the large casino, John tried again.

“Are we seriously just leaving?”

“ _I_ am. You’re more than welcome to stay if you’d prefer,” Mycroft answered, starting to walk towards the exit.

“What about all the people?”

“What about them?”

John stared at Mycroft’s back, flabbergasted. Sherlock rolled his eyes. John made him feel good, but even that didn’t stop him from wishing for a companion with a few more brain cells.

“Sherlock?” he asked.

“We’ll come back later.”

Mycroft stopped and turned towards them. “No, you will not.”

“Hmm, I don’t think that’s your decision to make, brother mine.”

“Consider it returning the favor, then.”

“What favor?” John snapped.

Sherlock felt his insides go cold. The words. The implications. Was this it, then? Mycroft’s play? Lording over what Sherlock did for all time, subtly controlling him with the threat of telling John his misdeed? It was brilliant – truly worthy of his brother. John was a good man. He’d leave Sherlock if he found out. The thought was enough to leave him short of breath.

He’d been such an idiot! He wanted to pull his hair out, but instead found himself frozen.

“Do you believe it’s easy for me to constantly get you out of these little scrapes in which you seem to find yourselves? I imagine you think I wave my hand and it all goes away. I assure you, it was not that simple. I don’t enjoy engaging in sparring matches I never agreed to in the first place, brother mine.”

Sherlock could breathe again.

Sherlock waved at Mycroft’s words and pushed past him, careful to bump him just slightly. The feel of Mycroft’s body against his own was enough to send shivers down his sides.

“Yes, yes. Very busy crushing countries under your immense weight. I assume there’s a car waiting for us?” Sherlock said, continuing on through the crowds of people, not bothering to wait for an answer.

“Sherlock! Dammit,” John snapped.

Sherlock smirked as he heard him dash to catch up. Mycroft, unsurprisingly, followed at a more leisurely pace. As a result, he and John were already tucked up into the sleek black SUV and long ready to be on their way by the time his brother decided to grace them with his presence.

“Ready, sir?” Anthea asked. She was standing outside the vehicle waiting, her eyes lowered to her ever-present mobile.

“Yes, I believe our business here is sufficiently concluded.”

They were on the road not minutes later. He and John sat across from Mycroft and Anthea; his brother had a fondness for vehicles that allowed him to fully engage the other party. Sherlock wondered if Mycroft regretted it now that Sherlock was able to stare at him without having to deal with the annoyance of a seat between them. He’d not so much as glimpsed Mycroft in the two months between now and the rape, and he intended to look his fill.

As ever, Mycroft pretended not to notice his scrutiny.

Deciding he could probably get away with pressing his luck, Sherlock slouched in his seat and kicked out his legs until his outer calf touched Mycroft’s inner. His brother’s gaze snapped up from where it’d been rested on his mobile. He pursed his lips and silently indicated Sherlock needed to stop touching him immediately.

Sherlock pulled out his own mobile, kindly returned to him by Anthea, and proceeded to play chess. Mycroft was too _mature_ to play the “stop touching me” game and so went back to reading his emails. Just as Sherlock knew he would.

Twenty-two minutes had passed, during which John had tried to wrangle a date from an amused Anthea, when a group of military vehicles drove by them going in the opposite direction. Sherlock blinked and then leaned towards the tinted windows to get a better look.

“Don’t tell me you’ve become part of their intelligence service as well.”

“Not hardly. As I stated, it was not as simple to arrange as one might believe.”

“What’s going on?” John asked, drawing his attention away from Anthea to alternate between looking at him and Mycroft curiously.

“Mycroft’s ordered a raid on Ms. Henarez’s casino. Seems your slaves will be rescued after all.”

“I didn’t think you cared.”

“I don’t.”

John frowned.

“However,” Mycroft continued, “she was planning on bestowing the same fate upon my brother, and I can’t let it be known that I allow such disrespect without retribution. An example had to be made of her.”

Sherlock looked back down at his mobile and hoped no one noticed how pleased he secretly was. Mycroft didn’t need any more reason to flounce about like an overprotective mother hen.

“Right, because heaven forbid you actually care,” John said.

Mycroft didn’t deign that with a response.

“Where are we going again?” John asked, apparently just then realizing Mycroft had never said.

“A private airport. From there we’ll use the permission we’ve been given to fly across the border into the United States, where I have some business to attend to.”

“Ever the multi-tasker, brother mine.”

“I can hardly spend all of my time cleaning up your messes, _brother mine_.”

Sherlock’s foot rubbed Mycroft’s calf in response. It was light enough that they could both pretend it had been accidental. They both did.

==============================================

Sherlock held the small bottle up to the light, watching as its contents swished around through the glass. Tempting. Quite tempting.

“What’s that?” John asked, coming out of the bathroom. Sherlock observed him as he laid his dirty clothing down on the bed and carefully folded them into neat squares and then placed them into a bag provided by the hotel staff just for such a task.

“Knock-out drug,” Sherlock said, showing him the little spray bottle, “Thought it best to have it along. Just in case.”

“Would have been nice to use it against that bloody guard,” John said pointedly. He was still upset over the man’s intentions towards Sherlock. Sherlock couldn’t fathom why it bothered him so much.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. People were more apt to forget their annoyance when you agreed with them.

“Unfortunately, it’s quite rare – a substance of my own creation,” Sherlock said, fibbing only a little. It wasn’t as if Mr. Dolberly was there to protest and Sherlock _had_ made significant improvements to the formula. “I mixed it up in the kitchen before we left.”

“Of course you did. Because why wouldn’t you make illegal and undoubtedly dangerous substances in our flat?” John said, sounding exasperated as usual but still fond.

“It passes the time,” Sherlock said, shrugging.

“Right, well, sleeping also passes the time and that’s exactly what I’m going to do if you wouldn’t mind.” John nodded towards the door.

Taking the hint, Sherlock strode through the open door that connected their adjoining rooms. He closed it and the click resounded throughout the quiet.

He held the bottle up again. Quite tempting.

He’d enhanced the drug by shifting the compound into one more suitable for inhalation, which was far more useful in most situations. One quick spray was all it would take. Mycroft would know something was amiss the instant he brought the bottle out of his pocket, however. He’d have to do it when his brother wasn’t likely to notice.

Which meant he’d already have to be asleep.

_“Don’t ever do that again.”_

Sighing, Sherlock threw himself down onto his bed. It was large and luxuriously comfortable, just as one might expect from such an establishment. He thought of having Mycroft on his own bed just one room down and rolled over to groan into his pillow.

Setting the bottle on the nightstand nearby, Sherlock pulled himself to his knees and unzipped his trousers. He pulled his already hardening cock out from his pants and tugged it almost leisurely, not certain he truly wished to engage in masturbation when the possibility of sex existed.

He really shouldn’t.

There was a fifty percent possibility Mycroft knew about their previous time together. The fury he’d shown on the phone that day …. Sherlock shivered and squeezed the head of his cock.

The risk of punishment was extraordinarily high should Sherlock be caught. Life could become quite unbearable should Mycroft even _suspect_. Sherlock hated to waste time theorizing on what might come, but in this instance he couldn’t help but imagine a number of terrible fates should Mycroft’s full wrath be pointed in his direction. Only a fool would continue to dig when the hole was already threatening to collapse.

Sherlock ran the pad of his thumb over his slit. Just the thought of Mycroft at his mercy again had it weeping with pre-ejaculate. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for just one more hit.

He really shouldn’t.

Hissing, Sherlock tucked his painfully hard cock back into his too-tight trousers. Why hadn’t John warned him about the downfalls of tight trousers? Surely that was something the doctor should have mentioned?

Fisting his hand into the blankets, Sherlock forced himself to calm.

He wouldn’t waste his energy on something he could do any time he wished. Not when such a delicious prize lay sleeping so nearby. Sherlock glanced at the clock. Well, perhaps not sleeping. Mycroft was undoubtedly still performing his dull British Government duties. But if he waited another two hours and thirty-seven minutes – Mycroft’s bedtime plus an appropriate number of minutes to allow him to enter REM sleep – he could have his brother again.

He really shouldn’t.

So long as he was careful, he probably wouldn’t be caught. Mycroft wasn’t likely to examine himself thoroughly after coming out of what he perceived to be a normal rest.

Even if he was found out, Mycroft was unlikely to seriously maim or kill him. If nothing else, the time with the bees had surely proven Mycroft was too fond of him for such drastic measures. There existed the distinct possibility Mycroft might actually exile him to Antarctica, but only until Mummy requested someone to take her to _Cats_ for the sixteenth time.

He really shouldn’t.

It would be worth it.

Sherlock rolled onto his back and placed his hands underneath his chin, palms pressed flat against each other as he waited.

Time flew by as he cleaned up his Mind Palace and before he knew it, it was time to take action. He glanced at the clock: just over three hours since he’d started his mental dusting. A little over the mark he’d been shooting for, but the storage cupboard full of bondage acts had been of particular interest and he’d spent a good twenty minutes sorting through different types of restraints involving suit ties.

He rose from the bed and grabbed the bottle off the nightstand in a single fluid motion.

Sliding into the hallway, Sherlock followed the carpet down several meters until he came to a door on his right. He pulled out the extra card he’d nicked from the front desk earlier and made a show for the cameras on each end of the hallway. He flipped the card as if trying to comprehend which side went into the door, as the unobservant goldfish of the world so often did. In reality, he was checking to make certain Anthea wasn’t standing about anywhere. Coast clear, he took a deep breath and popped open the door.

It opened to a sitting room, just like his and John’s rooms. He closed the door behind him, the well-oiled hinges making no sound. Taking his out phone, Sherlock made his way across the room to where the bedroom should be located, guided by the tiny light. Slipping it into his pocket, he dropped to the floor and peered under the doorway. He saw only darkness.

Feeling more confident, his pulse dropped to a less alarming rate as he rose and turned the knob. His brother’s soft breathing directed him right to his sleeping form and Sherlock sprayed him with Mr. Dolberly’s invention before anything unwanted could happen. He listened to Mycroft’s breathing for a few minutes just to make certain there would be no unexpected side effects from incapacitating someone already unconscious. Sherlock pressed a shaky hand to Mycroft’s bare chest for additional assurance. Well, it appeared he’d still not yet managed to give his brother a heart attack, no matter Mycroft’s predictions as to the contrary.

He walked away from the bed and made his way to where he remembered the light switch to be in his own room. The moment of truth. Sherlock flipped the switch before he could make himself too nervous. Mycroft remained blissfully unaware of his brother’s current location.

Striding back over to the bed, Sherlock grabbed hold of the covers and yanked them away to reveal Mycroft in nothing but his pajama bottoms. Licking his lips, Sherlock rested his bum on the side of the bed, which was plenty large enough to hold them both, even if Mycroft did have an awful habit of sleeping right in the middle. Almost idly, he slipped his hand down into Mycroft’s bottoms. His brother’s cock was warm against his palm.

He played with it, watching as the black cloth moved over the back of his hand with each motion. Mycroft started to harden just as slowly as before. However, this time Sherlock had perfected the drug so that he had a solid five hours before his brother started to stir, and that wasn’t even taking into consideration how his already sleeping state might affect the results.

His hand slid upwards towards Mycroft’s naval as he leaned over and gave him a kiss on the lips. Sherlock snorted. He tasted like Earl Grey and the little chocolates available in the mini kitchen provided in each room. Sherlock pinched his brother’s side, though not hard enough to leave a mark.

“You’re going to get fat again, brother mine,” he whispered against Mycroft’s lips. He leaned forward and kissed him again, running his tongue around Mycroft’s pliant mouth. He counted the number of filings he found and added them to Mycroft’s room in his Mind Palace.

Turning his attention downwards, Sherlock shifted on the bed so that he was on all fours above Mycroft. He bent his head to kiss his brother along his neck and shoulders, just as a lover might. His kisses trailed downwards until he could pull a nipple into his mouth. He sucked on it as if it were a treat, the skin soft and tasting of Mycroft. Pulling back, he blew on the wet nub and watched as it hardened up nicely. He eyed the other one, but of course it was far too dull to merely grant it the same treatment. Mycroft deserved something a little … unique.

Unzipping his trousers, he pulled his erect cock out his boxers for the second time that night. Just as before, a small dribble of preseminal fluid graced his tip. Angling himself, Sherlock pushed his cock forward to rub the slit against Mycroft’s unattended nipple. He gasped as the liquid coated the bud. Moaning, he dragged the head of his cock across Mycroft’s chest and abdomen, the fluid left behind marking his brother has his own. He vowed then that he would allow Mycroft no other lovers. He’d drive them all off, just as Mycroft drove off anyone he found unworthy of associating with him.

Standing up, Sherlock went through the awkward process of pushing his trousers completely down while maintaining his balance on the bed. Once they’d reached his ankles, he pulled one foot out and carelessly kicked them to the other side of the room. Getting back down on all fours, he hovered over Mycroft, allowing his cock to only barely brush his brother’s skin.

Needing more, he hopped off the bed and started digging through the nightstand. A fine establishment such as this had to have every accommodation. Smirking, Sherlock pulled out a discreet package of lubricant hidden towards the back of the drawer. He yanked Mycroft’s bottoms down to his knees and climbed back on top. Almost frenzied by now, he ripped the packaging open and squirted some of the lubricant onto their cocks.

Taking them both in hand – Sherlock’s painfully hard and leaking, Mycroft’s still contemplating whether or not it wanted to stand up properly – he slowly ran his fingers over them both. When that wasn’t enough, he placed a hand on either side of their organs and rubbed them together. He moaned and jerked his hips forward. Sherlock threw his head back and quickened his pace until he finally spilled himself all over Mycroft.

Shaking, he took several deep breaths. He allowed his heart rate to return to something a little less frenzied and then he sat back on his haunches and continued to play with Mycroft’s cock. Sherlock pulled his foreskin back and forth across his tip in a pace that would have driven his brother insane had he been awake to appreciate it. His index finger ran across his brother’s tip, Mycroft’s own pre-ejaculate now leaking out.

Sherlock licked the fluid off his finger and then leaned forward to take a taste from the source. He dipped his tongue into the tiny hole before slipping the head into his mouth. Then he slid his lips down the entirety of Mycroft’s cock, smirking as it made its way past his gag reflex without issue. Sherlock was pleased to see his deep-throating practice hadn’t gone to waste. Slowly, he pulled himself off, freeing his brother’s cock from the confines of his mouth so that it may lay twitching against his pelvic region.

He continued to play with Mycroft, keeping him just on the edge but not pushing him over, until Sherlock began to feel more recovered. Waiting until his own cock was able to harden again, Sherlock took the lubricant and spread it along their cocks once more. He used up the last of the packet coating Mycroft’s stomach and chest and proceed to run his cock all along his brother’s front. Eventually Sherlock found the spot he liked best and he rutted against his brother in a manner no different than a horny dog might. The thought of Mycroft’s horror at the action was enough to send him over the edge for the second time that night.

He forced Mycroft to follow after him, masturbating his brother until his semen came out in pearly white shots, covering Sherlock’s release on his stomach. A deep sense of satisfaction permeated through him at the evidence of his brother’s pleasure, brought about by his hands.

The feeling soon melted into annoyance as Sherlock found himself completely exhausted. Not so much that he was going to pass out like an ashamed virgin as he had last time, but enough that he knew his fun for the night was over. Almost growling, he reached forward and rubbed the semen all over Mycroft’s stomach and chest, as if his transport’s need of rest was somehow his brother’s fault. The sight of Mycroft’s nipples covered in a mixture of their combined ejaculate soothed something in him and he reached forward to suck the liquid off, sucking the buds one last time before pulling away.

Knowing his time was over, Sherlock reluctantly got off of Mycroft and proceeded to go about cleaning them both up, heavy yawns coming from his mouth all the while.

======================================

Sherlock was careful to pay no attention to his brother the next morning as they all sat down to a rather lavish private breakfast provided by the hotel. John looked quite appreciative of the spread and proceeded to eat as if it were his last meal. Sherlock had a bit of toast.

Mycroft didn’t appear to be the least bit phased by anything that had happened last night. And why should he be? Sherlock had been extra careful to clean him up properly and tidy the room. He’d certainly left no marks, despite his almost animalistic desire to do so.

“I see you’ve decided to eat today, brother mine,” Mycroft commented idly.

“John would be angry if I didn’t,” Sherlock answered. It wasn’t a complete lie.

John nodded. Swallowing his milk he said, “Yes. I would. Don’t think I don’t know you haven’t eaten anything in two days.” He pointed his fork at Sherlock threateningly. Sherlock was entirely certain that if it came down to it, John wasn’t above feeding him by force.

“Don’t fret, I’m certain something has passed through my brother’s lips sometime in the past two days,” Mycroft said, flipping through screens on his phone.

Sherlock choked on his toast, much to his embarrassment and John’s concern. The good doctor gave him a few hearty pats on the back.

Looking up from his mobile, Mycroft penetrated him with his ever-knowing gaze. He waited until Sherlock had gotten control over his breathing and was no longer at risk of dying at the breakfast table before he said, “I saw him steal the complimentary chocolate off your pillow before you entered the room.”

John gave Sherlock a dirty look.

Sherlock stared at his brother while Mycroft’s attention went back to his phone. John raised an eyebrow and glanced between them.

“Something the matter, brother mine?” Mycroft asked, his gaze never wavering from the small screen in front of him.

“…No.”

He continued to watch his brother but nothing more came. Eventually, Sherlock started to eat again.

**Author's Note:**

> So, what'd you think? Don't worry, we'll see Mycroft's POV soon enough!
> 
> Concrit welcome.


End file.
